


just a ghost out of his grave

by magichistorian



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Abusive Relationships, Second Chances, temporary un-death, theyre just so in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22047895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magichistorian/pseuds/magichistorian
Summary: "Don't you have anything you wanted to say or do? Are you really satisfied with how it ended? " His voice drops again, back to that meek voice that doesn't sound like Eddie at all. "Because I wasn't."Things he wants to say? There are so many things he needs to say, that he can recall sitting on the tip of his tongue as Eddie bled out in front of him, the terror of losing Eddie and the terror of failing him, even in his last minutes of life suffocating his words.And here is his chance. His second chance he never should have been given. But as he stares at Eddie, still perched on his hips from when he first calmed Richie down, the words fail him once more.He's a coward.(Eddie comes back to see Richie one last time, and Richie finally has the chance to say the things he never got to before)
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Kudos: 27





	just a ghost out of his grave

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Mother Mother's Ghosting](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tlAiq0_BXac)!
> 
> A gold sticker to whoever finds the song lyric in one of the lines of dialogue :)

From deep within his not-so-pleasant dreams, something comes, dragging Richie out and instantly forcing him awake. He blinks groggily a few times in the dark. He tries laying his head back down, but gives up immediately when he realizes it's useless. He isn't going back to sleep any time soon.    
  
He fumbles in the darkness for the light, eventually catching his fingers in the string and yanking it on. A soft shuffle snatches his focus and he turns his head to see what it is, except what he sees is the last thing he was expecting and he can feel his blood turning to ice. Because the person intruding in his bed and staring back at him with eyes as huge and shocked as his certainly are is-   
  
Richie shoots backwards, throwing his head into his bedside table and barely saving himself from falling off the bed entirely. His hand, still caught in the lamp cord, tugs reflexively and plunges the room back into darkness.    
  
He lays still for a moment before he allows himself to sit up and lean against the headboard. He refuses to look over because he can't decide if he wants to see who he just saw, sitting right there next to him. Is he dreaming? No, he’s wide awake, that's certain. The throbbing in his head is far too real for a dream. He'll be feeling it for days. A bruise has to be already forming on the tender skin.   
  
But if he isn't dreaming, then why the hell is Eddie Kasprak in his bed? 

Eddie Kasprak, who is very, very dead?    
  
Is It back? Did It come back to taunt him and kill him, to make a mockery of them all, the stupid, stupid fools that thought they could actually win? Of course It did, all It wants is to torment them, kill them slowly until they beg to leave, wishing they had taken the easy way out already like Stan had. And what better way than to taunt him with Eddie, the one person he would follow anywhere, even if his head knows it isn't really Eddie. And it isn't Eddie, because Eddie is, Eddie is, is . . .   
  
Two hands slap his face, breaking his train of thought and forcing his head up. He can't make his eyes look away any longer and he remembers how much he loved- no,  _ loves _ Eddie’s eyes.    
  
It's  _ Eddie _ , straddling his hips, and sandwiching Richie's face between his palms.    
  
"Calm down!" Eddie cries, and he does. He cannot help but obey any word from Eddie's mouth.   
  
As he searches for something to focus on, to ground himself, he notices the weight of Eddie's body on his hips. He must have climbed onto Richie’s lap when he was caught up in his panic, to get leverage. Their skin isn't touching, not through the painfully familiar clothes Eddie is wearing, but still, the contact leaves his chest feeling a bit too hot. It is relaxing, too, and he can feel his breaths flattening out into a normal pace.    
  
Pennywise would have done something already, if he really was here, Richie decides. And they killed him. He can't be back. So this isn't It. However Eddie got here, it wasn't It.    
  
"It's you, Eds," Richie whispers. Even in the darkness, the form of the body in front of him is unmistakable. He could, of course, turn on his lamp and be certain, but some nagging part of him warns that turning on the light would break the spell, make him vanish with the darkness.   
  
"Don't call me that." Eddie protests, and Richie can't help but laugh. Eddie appears from nowhere and the first thing he does is complain? That's his Spaghetti.   
  
Wait. 

_ Appears out of nowhere _ ? Eddie didn't appear out of nowhere. Eddie is  _ dead _ . And if he isn't It, how the hell is he in Richie's room, straddling his lap? Richie's hands, which are not-so-subtly planted on Eddie's waist, are resting over a living body, warm enough that he can feel it through his shirt.   
  
"You're . . . back?" Richie chokes out. "How are you back?"   
  
A wretched thought forces itself to the forefront of Richie’s mind. "Were- were you still alive?"   
  
When we left you? When  _ I _ left you? Left you down there in the dark, sick sewers to die all alone? He leaves those questions unsaid.   
  
Eddie shakes his head, like he knows what Richie was thinking. He probably does. He knows Richie, as well as Richie knows himself. "No, Rich. You  _ can't _ feel bad about leaving me. You guys had to leave. And no. You didn't leave any living people down there. I never left. I’m dead as a doornail, without any doubt."   
  
Richie doesn't miss the distinction in tense in Eddie's words. "Was dead, you mean. You look pretty fucking alive to me!" He chuckles.   
  
Eddie doesn't.   
  
"Eddie?"    
  
"I'm not really back, Richie." Eddie won't meet his eyes, gaze glued to the words printed on whatever ratty old shirt Richie has on.    
  
"What do you mean?" Richie asks, forcing his voice down from a panicked edge like a man forces down an overflowing bottle of soda. "You're right here. I can feel you!"    
  
He presses his hand to Eddie's chest in proof. He's solid, and warm.    
  
“It's temporary, Richie," Eddie says, his voice weak and pleading. "I met the turtle, and he said he couldn't bring me all the way back. I'm only here for the night. But I . . . I wanted to see you one more time. I had to."   
  
Richie's face twists. He wants to vomit. "Just the night? That's only a couple hours! What the fuck are you wasting your time here for? What about the other losers? What about your wife?”

His voice lowers in shame. “You don't want this lonely old man."   
  
Instead of an answer, he only earns a slap to the face. It wasn't hard, but he wasn't expecting it, and it leaves him smarting for a few moments. 

When he looks back up, Eddie is glaring at him and he is  _ livid _ .   
  
"Goddammit, Richie! You whiny fucker! I came back for you!  _ You _ ! And you still want to complain that you aren't good enough?"   
  
_ He said he came back for you _ ! A voice cheers in his head.    
  
Richie can't do this. He  _ can't _ . He can hear his terrible, terrible, stupid thoughts wanting, and he's trying so hard to push them away but Eddie is not helping. He doesn't deserve to have Eddie here, and the fact that Eddie thinks Richie deserves his last night makes him want to cry. Or break something. He doesn't know what to say, but he needs Eddie gone before he can't convince himself he doesn't want Eddie more than anything.    
  
"You're married, Eddie! You have a wife, shouldn't you be with her?"   
  
"I'm legally dead and she doesn't know about the clown. I can't see her.” A pause. “And she's the last person I want to see right now."   
  
"Why?"    
  
Eddie doesn't say anything. He's chewing on his lip in the way one does when they want something said, but don't know how to say it. Richie refrains from pressing him. He has a decent clue what Eddie would have said anyway.    
  
He hadn't missed the fact that, while Eddie was as opposed to fighting Pennywise as the rest of them, he had never once mentioned wanting to return for the sake of his wife.    
  
Eddie, after much ruminating, finally gets his words out. They aren’t the words Richie was expecting.   
  
"Do you not want me here?" Eddie's voice is far too soft for his normally harsh tone. It’s quiet, like he doesn't really want himself heard.   
  
"What?" Richie says; nearly chokes. "Why wouldn't I?" He can feel himself caving. He had a chance, but Eddie in pain is his ultimate weak spot and he knows by now; he has no hope of convincing even himself to leave any longer.   
  
"From the second I got here, all you did was question my being here. I was expecting," he draws in a sharp breath. "I was expecting you to be excited."   
  
"I am, Eddie. I wanted to see you more than anything. I'm just in shock. You were dead last time I checked, you know? You don't get to tell me I'm not excited enough." His voice sounds harsh, even to himself.    
  
"Don't you have anything you wanted to say or do? Are you really satisfied with how it ended? " His voice drops again, back to that meek voice that doesn't sound like Eddie at all. "Because I wasn't."   
  
Things he wants to say? There are so many things he needs to say, that he can recall sitting on the tip of his tongue as Eddie bled out in front of him, the terror of losing Eddie and the terror of failing him, even in his last minutes of life suffocating his words.

  
And here is his chance. His second chance he never should have been given. But as he stares at Eddie, still perched on his hips from when he first calmed Richie down, the words fail him once more.    
  
He's a coward.   
  
He opens his mouth. Eddie is dead, so who cares if he hates him? He'll be gone again in a few hours and nobody will be any wiser. He knows exactly what he wants to say, has known since middle school. So why won't he say anything?    
  
Pennywise's taunts, the Bowers gang's jeers, all of them, creep towards his consciousness. He doesn't need to be afraid. But he is. He's terrified.    
  
"I . . . I can't." Even that floods him with shame. Weak.    
  
Eddie's face is masked a bit in the darkness, but with their proximity, Richie can still see his mouth going taut. His brows furrow, and Richie can tell he's pissed.    
  
"You can't? You  _ can't? _ " Eddie's voice jumps a few pitches higher, as it always does when he is angry. "What the hell? I came back from the dead! For you! And you can't even tell me whatever fucking secret is so worth keeping? What the fuck could be so important that you won't tell me? I was gone and I'll be gone again in a few fucking hours. If you don't say anything now you will never have a chance again and all you'll have is regret for skipping out on your last chance. And your second last chance. Is that really what you fucking want, you damn coward?"   
  
Eddie's voice starts shaking so hard the last sentence barely makes it out before he crumbles into sobs. When he speaks again, his voice is so soft Richie barely hears him.   
  
"I can't bear to see you make the same mistake I did."   
  
Richie brushes a tear from Eddie's cheek, unable to ignore the way Eddie leans into the touch, then grabs one of Eddie's hands, which were both fisted tightly into the fabric of his pants. It trembles in his grip.   
  
"What mistake, Eddie?"   
  
Eddie smiles at him. His eyes are still filled with tears. Even so, there is none of the fear that has always been visible in his eyes. "Being too afraid to tell you I loved you, Richie. That mistake."   
  
Richie couldn't be winded faster if somebody had punched him.    
  
What can he say to that? Eddie Kasprak, who is terrified of AIDS and germs and everything in between? Eddie Kasprak who has a wife? Eddie Kasprak who deserves more than a sad, washed-up comedian? Eddie Kasbrak, Richie's best friends forever and always, the Eddie he loves more than life, that Eddie Kasbrak? What can he ever say?   
  
"Why?" Is all he can say.   
  
"Why not?" Eddie replies without a second of hesitation.    
  
Richie opens his mouth to offer a hundred reasons, but he knows the look in Eddie's eyes far too well. The look that says he has made his choice and nothing anybody, and especially not Richie Tozier, can change.    
  
So he closes it again.    
  
And leans forward.    
  
Slowly, almost expecting Eddie to pull away. He doesn't, and moves forward instead to seal their lips.    
  
Richie has to end it far sooner than he would have liked. In his flood of emotion, he had forgotten to take a breath before going in for the kiss. When he explains that to Eddie, he just laughs.   
  
When they stop laughing, he pulls in for another kiss, this one much longer than the first. As they continue, Richie grows a little bolder, slowly shifting his hands from their position on Eddie's waist farther down, where he can slip his fingers under Eddie's shirt and brush against his skin.    
  
At the first contact against his skin, Eddie jumps. Richie draws back, prepared to stop, when Eddie hisses, "Do that again."   
  
So he does. He slowly trails his hands up along the smooth skin, relishing every shiver from Eddie. Halfway up his back, however, something feels different. Richie stops for a moment, confused, before realizing what it is and freezes.    
  
Eddie notices immediately and starts to ask until he realizes where Richie's hand is: brushing against the scar tissue replacing a hole the exact side of a very large spider’s leg. From when he was impaled.    
  
"Are you sure you're really gone?"   
  
Eddie looks like he wants to cry again. "I'm sure, Richie."   
  
"You just feel so," He traces the skin, which is rough but just as warm. "So real."   
  
"I'm not. I'm just a ghost out of his grave, Richie. This body isn't real. I might not even be me, this could all just be an elaborate illusion set up by the turtle as some pathetic apology."   
  
Richie shakes his head. He knows illusions. And he knows Eddie.    
  
He pinches his fingers around the hem of Eddie's shirt and catches his eyes.   
  
"May I?" Eddie nods consent.    
  
Slowly, like everything else he's doing, he slides the shirt up, hesitating when Eddie's scar fully reveals itself. It's different, actually seeing it. He regains focus long enough to pull the shirt off all the way and fling it into the darkness somewhere.    
  
Without anything in his way, he can freely skim his fingertips across the scar tissue, tracing along the outline of it. It's big, but not as big as it seemed when they were down in the sewers.   
  
Eddie says nothing, but isn't entirely silent. He shivers every time Richie touches him, like he forgot what it feels like to be touched every time it goes away, even for a second.   
  
"Richie," he groans after several minutes of Richie's reverent examination. "Don't get lost."   
  
"Too late for that," he replies, finally coming back into a kiss. Eddie brings his arms around Richie, grasping a fistful of hair with one hand and clutching his shoulder with the other.    
  
The warmth spreading from his fingers to his toes is a sign that he's just as desperate for the contact as Eddie is. He's loving it, until he isn't. The longer they stay that way, the more a wicked seed of shame has time to grow. Is he being selfish, keeping Eddie here with him, to make himself happy? Shouldn't Eddie be doing what he wants, instead of just fulfilling Richie's repressed desires?    
  
"Do you," he starts, trying to distract himself from Eddie's warm body touching him in so many places, "Want to go somewhere? Go on a walk, or I don't know, eat something?"   
  
Eddie pulls back, eyebrows cocked. "Do you want to go do those things?"    
  
"Not really."   
  
"Where do you want to be?"   
  
". . . With you."   
  
"Then," Eddie says, leaning closer until their foreheads are touching just so, "I don't see why we should be anywhere else."   
  
"But, you deserve-"   
  
"Deserve what?"   
  
"You're back from the dead, Eddie. That's . . . shouldn't we do something special? Isn't it a waste to just do something so, so normal? You know what I'm trying to say, don't you? You deserve to spend this time doing something more special with somebody more special." Richie pleads.   
  
"I understand," Eddie says. "But who's to say what's special and what's not? There isn't anywhere I want to be more, you dumbass. And you deserve everything I do and more."    
  
Richie's eyes burn. He pulls Eddie to his chest, Eddie letting him without any resistance. In their older age, they had both learned something about restraint and not pushing boundaries. So neither teases, or bitches, and they just simply love.    
  
Eddie nestles his head in Richie's neck, rubbing gentle circles into Richie's back in silent reassurance. It doesn't help much, and Richie can't stop the hot tears from dripping down his chin, most of them falling on Eddie's shoulders. He doesn't complain about it, though, and Richie couldn't have stopped anyway.    
  
He doesn't know how to handle it, to accept Eddie's words. He doesn't deserve this. But Eddie says he does, and if he denies it, then he denies Eddie. He can't do that. But he can't accept the fact that he is really so deserving, so easily.    
  
When his tears are under control, Richie pulls Eddie back to face him, drawing him in for another kiss.    
  
When they part, Eddie rolls off Richie onto his side, tugging Richie's arm with him. It doesn't work, not really, because Richie is sitting up too far and Eddie isn't pulling very hard, but with some awkward shuffling and a few stray elbows, they make themselves into a curled little mess.    
  
They're both lying on their sides, facing each other. Richie can see Eddie's face, and can feel his feet where their legs tangle.    
  
It's comfortable. The tension from only minutes prior has vanished too, and they are simply sitting in peaceful silence.    
  
Unfortunately, Richie hates silence.    
  
It doesn't take long to think of something. 

“Do you think Stan got to come back?”

“I don't know,” Eddie says. “I hope so. He deserves it as much as me.”

“Yeah. What do you think he’s doing? I’d guess he’s with Patty, or out birdwatching.”

“Probably. Or he’s with Bill.”

Richie nods in agreement. 

They both tumble into silence once more. Richie wants to care more about Stan. And he does. Not all of his nightmares were about Eddie. As much as he loves Eddie, Stan was his best friend. But now isn't the time. 

Thinking of Stan makes him think of them as children. And memories of them as children reminds him of the nightmare that was teenage Richie, which makes him think of-

"You know, I jacked off all the time to you as a teenager, Eds." He blurts.   
  
"Ew," Eddie says, but his eyes are smiling.   
  
Richie feigns offense before continuing. "That was when I felt the most shame about loving you, I think. Because that was the point where I couldn't even try to convince myself what I was feeling was anything else. I nearly joked about it countless times."   
  
Richie laughs to himself a little. "I knew it would drive you absolutely crazy, and I love driving you crazy. I never could, though. Something inside me felt like you would be able to tell I wasn't joking anymore. Like you could look me in the eye and drag out the lie and all the other secrets right with it."   
  
Eddie laughs too. "I think you overestimate me."   
  
"Never."   
  
They kiss again. Eddie kisses hard and fast, like he's trying to do as much as he can, like he's timing them to the second. But every time he pushes, Richie slows himself down. Kisses a little softer, brushes Eddie's skin at a snail’s pace. Eddie tries to fight it, by replacing kisses with bites or by grinding down with his nails digging into Richie's skin. Every time he does, though, Richie forces Eddie's hands still, whispering "patience" into his kisses. And Eddie gives in, because he is as weak for Richie as Richie is for him.    
  
It's a tug-of-war neither of them wants to win.   
  
When Richie pulls Eddie in a little closer, he cups his cheek, finding the scar left there by Henry Bowers.    
  
Richie moves his hand down from Eddie's cheek. Brushing down his chin and stopping at his neck. His thumb is still on his cheek and he strokes small circles with it. He shifts his other fingers and realizes, with a start, that his forefinger is hovering just above Eddie's artery. Carotid, he thinks. He presses down lightly.    
  
He can feel a heartbeat.  _ Eddie's _ heartbeat. He has a heartbeat. Richie wonders if he will ever be able to pull his hand free. Maybe, his desperate mind thinks, that if he keeps his hand there, proves to himself that Eddie has a heartbeat and thus is alive, Eddie won't disappear. That he will have to stay because his heartbeat is there.    
  
Richie feels a hand, moving to rest on top of his own. Just the little touch is enough to bring his head back down, back down to Eddie.   
  
"Don't let it fool you, Rich." Eddie murmurs. He knows what Richie is thinking, because he always does. "You can't let yourself get hung up on the impossible. I'm not staying."   
  
Despite what he says, he allows Richie to keep his hand there for just a few minutes longer. Maybe he's wishing just as hard. Maybe he wants the same thing as Richie.    
  
When he sees Eddie's hand lying on the mattress, Richie finally breaks free from Eddie's neck, reaching to grab his hand instead. He takes his hand, which, to his delight, seems to still be smaller than Richie's, and slowly twines their fingers together.    
  
He looks up, expecting Eddie to whine about Richie’s big hands, or at least laugh at him a little for being so sappy. Instead, he is staring at their hands like he doesn't believe it's true; and his eyes are wide and filled with tears.    
  
"Eddie?" Richie's scared. Did he do something wrong? Is Eddie in pain?    
  
"I-" His voice chokes off. His grip on Richie's hand tightens, and Richie squeezes back in a meager attempt at comfort.    
  
Eddie forces down three slow heaving breaths. His voice is pinched from the tears, but manages to say, "Myra has never held my hand before."    
  
Richie wants to cry too. Or be sick. Or find and hurt every single person that has ever hurt Eddie.    
  
He teased Eddie before, about marrying a woman just like his mother. But it wasn't funny anymore. These women, these damn women hurt his Eddie Spaghetti so badly. 

Richie remembered Eddie, thirteen years old, sneaking into his room, red-eyed and blubbering, countless times. Each time, he would curl up on Richie's bed and cry until he was ready to talk. Then Richie could gently pry, and Eddie would tell him what new despicable thing his mother had done that day.   
  
And it happened again, with his stupid wife. Except grown-up Eddie didn't have a Richie to cry to, he had nobody, and no memories to tell him he was able to defend himself.    
  
"She hardly touched me at all," Eddie whispers, catching Richie's attention. "I felt like her doll, trapped in its packaging, never let out to play because I might break."   
  
Richie knows how much Eddie hates being thought of as weak or delicate.    
  
Eddie's free hand clutches at the sheets. "Like there was anything that could have broken me, after Derry. But she didn't know that, and neither did I, not really. So I just- I just let her."   
  
Richie knows that's what hurts most. That he wasn't able to stand up for himself, that he didn't break himself free.   
  
"You aren't broken. And you aren't weak." Richie whispers into Eddie's hair. "And it's okay to not be able to make things better all by yourself. It wasn't your fault."    
  
Richie wonders when he got any good at comfort.    
  
He doesn't have time to figure it out, though, because all of a sudden, Eddie goes stiff.    
  
"Eds-"    
  
"The sun," Eddie says, nodding behind them. Richie turns, and can feel the blood drain from his face. It isn't much at all. It's barely there. But there is a glimpse of light on the horizon and Richie doesn't have to ask to know what that means.    
  
He flips back around and with wild, grappling hands, grabs Eddie, cradling him close against his chest. He's holding too tight, but the fact that Eddie is about to leave again is coming to terms in his brain and he can't.   
  
"Richie," Eddie says helplessly.    
  
"No!" Richie cries, a little too loud. "I  _ need _ you, Eddie. I- I can't live without you!"   
  
"You can. You have to."   
  
How is Eddie so calm?    
  
"What about the last 27 years? You made it without me just fine.”

  
"No, Eddie. I didn't." Richie loosens his grip enough to look at Eddie's face. He can tell now that Eddie isn't really that calm, he's just trying to keep himself together. For Richie. "I was hollow the whole time. I just couldn't remember what I was missing."   
  
Eddie curls his hand around the back of Richie's head, combing through the messy strands. "Were you ever happy Richie?"    
  
Richie smiles. "Of course I was, silly. I spent my childhood with you, didn't I?" The smile fades. "You are the love of my fucking life, Eddie. I'll never love anybody half as much as I love you."   
  
"Then don't. But Richie, please. Please find something that makes you happy. You'll do that for me, won't you?"   
  
"Anything."    
  
He will. He will be the happiest man on earth if that's what will make Eddie happy. Somehow. Somehow.    
  
He closes his eyes, unwilling to watch Eddie vanish, whenever and however it comes. But he forces himself to open them one more time, see Eddie's face one more time.    
  
Richie looks, and for just a moment- barely a heartbeat but long enough -they are thirteen again. Their hands are much smaller and they know much less. They don't know what loss really is, not real loss, and they are less afraid for it.    
  
Their touches are lighter because they are not heavy with expectations. Standards and judgments are off their minds. 

They didn't stay that way for long, though. The fear came. Richie wishes he had known, had been less afraid. The hatred from others wasn't so bad, was it really? No, it wasn't. Richie wishes he had known because having Eddie, seeing Eddie, loving Eddie, well, it blew all the hurt away.    
  
Richie hopes that, somewhere, someday, there will be a young boy like him, who loves. Who loves somebody like Eddie, and isn't afraid. He hopes they will love each other. He hopes they won't make the same mistakes they did.    
  
Richie falls asleep before Eddie disappears, and dreams of the two of them.   
  


  
  


  
When he wakes, Eddie is gone. 

Mostly gone. Only mostly.    
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, consider checking out my [Tumblr](https://emilswrites.tumblr.com/)! I just recently made the blog, so I'm trying to get my work out there a little more! I will be posting this there as well, so a comment, a reblog or a follow would mean so much to me. :D
> 
> Also! My original draft of this wrote this as an NSFW fic. I clearly didn't write it that way, but I have an unfinished NSFW draft saved. If any of you are interested in that, I would be glad to finish that version as well!


End file.
